Tag Archives: eBook

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called “places.” These “places” make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a “colony.”

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. “Johnsy” was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d’hôte of an Eighth Street “Delmonico’s,” and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown “places.”

Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.

“She has one chance in – let us say, ten,” he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. ” And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she’s not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?”

“She – she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day.” said Sue.

“Paint? – bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice – a man for instance?”

To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o’clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr. Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar.

Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb-like building was still open.

Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening.

On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell.

“Hello, in there,” he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. “What’s up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?”
The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the streets, for company.

“What is it now?” he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. “Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?”

Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not once in all that time.
He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.

He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.

A metallic voice called to him:
“Stand still. Stay where you are! Don’t move!”
He halted.
“Put up your hands!”
“But—” he said.
“Your hands up! Or we’ll Shoot!”

The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn’t that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets. “Your name?” said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn’t see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.

“No profession,” said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest. “You might say that,” said Mr. Mead. He hadn’t written in years. Magazines and books didn’t sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multicolored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them. “No profession,” said the phonograph voice, hissing. “What are you doing out?”

“Walking,” said Leonard Mead.
“Walking!”
“Just walking,” he said simply, but his face felt cold.
“Walking, just walking, walking?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Walking where? For what?”
“Walking for air. Walking to see.”
“Your address!”
“Eleven South Saint James Street.”
“And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr. Mead?”
“Yes.”
“And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?”
“No.”
“No?” There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.
“Are you married, Mr. Mead?”
“No.”
“Not married,” said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and clear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent.
“Nobody wanted me,” said Leonard Mead with a smile.
“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to!”
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
“Just walking, Mr. Mead?”
“Yes.”
“But you haven’t explained for what purpose.”
“I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.”
“Have you done this often?”
“Every night for years.”
The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.
“Well, Mr. Mead,” it said.
“Is that all?” he asked politely.
“Yes,” said the voice. “Here.” There was a sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang wide. “Get in.”
“Wait a minute, I haven’t done anything!”
“Get in.”
“I protest!”
“Mr. Mead.”
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.
“Get in.”

He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.
“Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,” said the iron voice. “But—”
“Where are you taking me?”

The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric eyes. “To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.”

He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.
They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.

“That’s my house,” said Leonard Mead.
No one answered him.

The car moved down the empty river-bed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.

Our eBook baby is ready and will be met with you all on our brand new website.

To add to this baby business, Mr. D’s cousin has given birth to a baby son last year. A dragon baby according to Chinese zodiac! Almighty and powerful just like Miss D. Miss D is a dragon, too, do you know?

To celebrate all these good news and give a gift to Mr. D’s nephew, we have collected some wonderful Nursery Rhymes and Lyrics. Miss D has grown up with these nursery songs and we always had a great time singing together.

Want to have a peek of these nurseries? Below are 10 of our favourites:

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling–something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pierglass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”

Down rippled the brown cascade.

“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

“Give it to me quick,” said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim’s present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation–as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value–the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends–a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do–oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?”

At 7 o’clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two–and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again–you won’t mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and let’s be happy. You don’t know what a nice– what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well, anyhow? I’m me without my hair, ain’t I?”

Jim looked about the room curiously.

“You say your hair is gone?” he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold, I tell you–sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,” she went on with sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year–what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first.”

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs–the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims–just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “My hair grows so fast, Jim!”

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

“Isn’t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

“Dell,” said he, “let’s put our Christmas presents away and keep ’em a while. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.”

The magi, as you know, were wise men–wonderfully wise men–who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Indonesia Education and School System

Of course, we are in Jakarta, hence our blog has a certain Indonesia touch. But ours is a fun oriented blog, has nothing to do with any system at all. Even if it is the Education system!

But wait, we can write, and to prove that, we write in many styles. And we can write in a formal tone, very formal indeed, OK?

You are not reading this article yet, ‘Indonesia Education and School System’, that is, because it will be in tomorrow’s newspaper ( or more exactly, a future post in someone else’s blog).

We thought it might be good to let you know first. So stay tuned and we will publish the ‘Indonesia Education and School System’ very soon.

On a more serious note: if you are moving to Jakarta, with a kid, then please come back to read this article. It gives you a detailed view on how the Indonesia education system looks like, and how to pick a good school for your child.

Very important topic, right? Hope you will like it. It is educational, indeed.

Last day before we fly out to China, we haven’t packed yet. And why we are still typing here?!

Because we are so excited, our first e-baby:

‘A Piece of Jakarta – 31 Days in Jakarta’

is now officially completed!

A big thank you to Miss D, who worked till 10pm last night to help out with the final editing, without you, the eBook won’t be as beautiful. You are a star!!!

You might have noticed that we changed the eBook cover a bit. Is it better this way? We like it because now that it suits the contents better. You will see what we mean if you read our eBook.

Most of the photos in this eBook is actually taken by Miss D. Even the photo on our eBook cover is taken by Miss D. We love it. How good is that! Plus she has a few articles there, too. We love the ‘5 Peculiar Things in Jakarta’ she wrote, which is included in the eBook.

Actually, while editing, Miss D came up with another great idea.

Miss D has been working in her Grade Ambassador Club in the past semester, and has grown a keen interest in organising events and activities.

We were thinking of launching our new eBook on a new website. But Miss D got a better idea: she wants to do a fundraiser at her school and give out the eBook for free. There are lots of unfortunate kids in Jakarta, and hopefully our eBook can help a good cause.

So after our holidays, she will talk to her adviser in school and see if she can do this. So excited! Maybe we will just throw in A Hat Day at her school, what do you think?

Actually, don’t even worry about that, finishing the eBook that is. Being a good planner Mrs. D is, we sure can complete the writing and editing on the last day (or more likely the last minute?) prior to our flight. She’s that good, very very prompture, if you ask her friends. 😀

An update on our eBook:

We have completed another great Jakarta musing for you. A duck story.

Don’t you just love it? We had a lot of laugh over this one.

Well, the title of this article is not ‘A Duck Story’. In fact, it has nothing to do with duck. The title of the new story is:

The Technician and the Light Bulb

This story is a classic one during our stay in Jakarta so far. Somehow, it is similar to the duck story we have put out at the end of the article. Not a duck story, a duck joke, to be exact. Haven’t we told you just now that we have a lot of laugh over this article?

Writing is our thing in the D House, no problem.

Editing?

Well, it’s also going well thanks to Miss D. She’s got some final school tests and assignments to go through, still she finds the time to help out with the editing. Sometimes, Miss D is so amazing that she makes us forget that she is only 12 years old. (OK, admittedly, our view on Miss D is fully biased, but don’t you do the same with your 12 year old?! After all Mrs. D’s parents are still doing this until this date!)

So what’s the problem?

The problem is: we can’t upload the eBook to our website!

Well, there is one solution: we can upload our eBook to some other website and give you a link, then you can go there to download.

We don’t wanna do that.

It’s like give up our own child out to a total stranger.

There is another solution: you send us your email request, and we reply with our eBook attached. Great idea, but can’t work either. Not while we are traveling in China. We have to set our priorities right. 😀

This problem is one of the reasons that we are switching to a better website. One that let us do all the things we want to: ie playing videos, songs, a better theme, better design… and of course, a function for downloading eBooks.

You wouldn’t think we will only write one eBook, would you?

Oh, no. We have more than one eBook for sure. This blog is going to last forever (OK, maybe not that ambitious, how about 10 years?). If we can write one eBook in 31 days, we sure can write at least 3 to 5 eBooks during our 10 years of writing.

Piece of cake. Can’t mess around in the math department with the Ds. 😀

So what to do now with our only eBook? After all it is our first e-child, a treasure in the D family. Well, if you know our private email address (not the midnightvisitor gmail account), you can send us an email and we will email you our eBook, even while we’re traveling.

Let’s see, hummm… that will easily pass the one million mark already. (OK, it’s more like one hundred, but a million sounds much better…)

If you don’t know our private email address, then can you wait till after our holidays? You can download the eBook from our new website. How exciting is that? A brand new website and a brand new eBook. Life is full of goodies.

Meanwhile, while you are here, why not check out some Christmas goodies on our website, make a couple of Christmas ornaments, taste our Christmas recipes, and shop for a few fashion items. Have a great time this Christmas!

We have just published our eBook cover for our ‘A piece of Jakarta – 31 Days In Jakarta’ yesterday. And then we found out this week all the bloggers are writing about ‘An offer I couldn’t refuse’!

Amazing. God send. Just the offer we need for our brand new eBook!

We love you, and thank you, God (aka the publishers at wordpress :D). You must have heard our prayers for reaching out our eBook to a wider audience, have you?

So here goes our ten minute:

Our eBook ‘A piece of Jakarta’ is due out next month, right before Christmas. This is our gift and souvenir for everyone who loves Jakarta, the city we are currently living in.

You can read our daily lives in Jakarta, our happiness and occasional frustration. Check out the itineraries, recipes, restaurants in Jakarta and Indonesia. We have plenty information there. Interested? Check out our draft content page for the eBook here.

How about a bit of exotic life sound? Life in Jakarta is different, exotic to a certain extend for sure. It surprises us every now and then, it will certainly amaze you. Please come and read our eBook. It is free and full of fun.

OK, thank you for your topic for this week. Hope you enjoyed our take on this one. A great 10 minutes we have had. Happy reading.

We are working on our eBook ‘A Piece of Jakarta – 31 Days In Jakarta’ at the moment. We are busy writing a few more articles to add into the eBook. Do you want to have a peek of them? These are fantastic, brand new articles that you won’t be able to see anywhere else. Promise.

Daily Musing

In the Daily Musing sector, we will add a few more pieces, the ones we are working on now are as below:

Jakarta Ghost Story 1 or

Jakarta Love Story 1

(We will only put one of these into the eBook, which one do you like more? And yes, these will be the first article of a new series on our blog, we will make sure to write story 2, story 3 etc on our blog :D)

The Technician and the light bulb (Yep, a very funny story which will make you laugh, Miss D can’t wait to show you this one!)

A Conspiracy Theory (A real life story in true Jakarta style, you will love it!)

Restaurant Find Jakarta

In the Restaurant Find Jakarta section, we will add a few new restaurant reviews. Maybe two?

Indonesia Recipe

In this section, if time allows, we will share a few more authentic Indonesia Recipes. But we are running out of time. So not sure about this one yet.

Jakarta Traveler’s Kit

Finally, we will add a brand new section, Jakarta Traveler’s Kit, with many useful, hand picked advises for traveling to Jakarta.